


you've got all these questions but i've got no answers

by smallcuts



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Pre-Split, Secret Admirer, basically its fluffy af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9411557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallcuts/pseuds/smallcuts
Summary: "He bites his lip and doesn’t say anything back, despite the millions of answers he has flitting around his mind. He doubts any of those would be good enough."-Brendon's got a secret admirer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE YOU ATTACK ME, i intentionally wrote the notes with almost no spaces between periods and commas. i used ryan's lj for reference lol

Brendon’s sitting inconspicuously in the lounge, red bull and capri-sun clenched in his hands, when he sees it — a paper no bigger than an index card, fluttering in the wind of the open tour bus window. He sets his drinks down and tiptoes over to it (Spencer would kill him if he woke him up), unfolding it as gently as he could manage.

It’s addressed to him in loopy handwriting and poorly drawn flowers. A wave of curiosity rushes through him as he reads it slowly.

_‘dearest brendon,_

_i love you.you don’t know it,i doubt you ever will. i see your image burned on my eyelids all the time..lucky me.i’ll admire you from afar,or i’ll die trying. i operate in shadows, use a flashlight some time._

_love,_

_g.’_

Brendon instantly racks his brain for anyone with a name starting with the letter G. Aside from Gabe, who he thinks definitely doesn’t write like this (he’ll ask later anyway), no one comes to mind. The more time he spends pondering the note, the more he realizes it’s probably a prank.

The thought of that admittedly hurts his feelings, enough so to make him crumple the paper and shove it deep, deep into his pocket, where it’ll never be seen by the light of day again. Or until Brendon throws these pants into the laundry pile.

 

-

 

“Sup B?” Jon asks before depositing himself onto the couch. He wastes no time in forcefully pressing his smelly feet into Brendon’s thighs. Jon Walker’s damn lucky that he’s amazing (Brendon’s come to love him in these past few days), otherwise Brendon would’ve jetted off this bus moments ago. He reluctantly starts rubbing his friend’s feet, earning little — exaggerated — moans of pleasure.

“Spence told me to give you this. Didn’t say who it was from, though,” says Jon, instantly piquing Brendon’s curiosity. He hands Brendon a neatly folded square of what looks to be stationary — how quaint. He opens it and is met with the same loopy handwriting from the note he found a week ago.

_‘my brendon,_

_you haven’t tried to figure me out.i’m glad, real glad. i can’t own up to you,not with trembling hands and an anxiety-ridden mind.i’m fucking burnt,i can’t, can’t, can’t deal with myself.never expect you to. we don’t talk much these days,but i’ve got a saturated head whirling with thoughts.we all want something beautiful. i wish i was beautiful._

_with love,_

_g.’_

The note reeks of Pete messing with him. He passes it off to Jon to read, subsequently earning a good laugh from the older man.

“Is this for real?”

Brendon glances away, mouth quirking down. He’s all for jokes and fucking with people but he doesn’t appreciate it when it’s him who’s being toyed with. He’s not as naïve as he was in high school, not anymore. “I dunno. I’m thinking either Pete’s fucking with me or Gabe is madly in love with me.” 

“Orrr you’ve got an admirer!! Oh Brendon, sweep me off my feet and carry me off into the sunset, where we—“

“Okay, shut the fuck up!” Brendon exclaims sleepily as he shoves his shoulder. Jon snorts and snatches the remote off the coffee table, turns on _That 70s Show_ , then sinks lower into the couch cushions. Brendon moves to get up, stifling a yawn in the process, and trudges over to the bunk area.

He shuffles right into one Ryan Ross. Brendon blinks, mind not comprehending the width of his bandmate’s pupils in the dark or the way his hands are shaking. “Sorry dude,” Brendon eventually mumbles after they’ve come to some sort of an awkward standstill.

They wouldn’t be here still if Ryan wasn’t directly blocking Brendon’s bunk.

“S’okay… go to sleep, you look tired,” Ryan manages after an odd period of silence. Brendon nods in response. He notices Ryan splay his fingers along his sides (is he nervous?) as he clunkily takes a few harsh step backwards, absentmindedly reminding Brendon of a jittery stray.

He giggles to himself at the image of Ryan as a stray puppy as he pulls back his bunk curtain and promptly passes out. He never registers the ghostly digits traversing his arms, nor the feathery light kiss pressed to his temple.

Brendon does, however, notice that his bunk curtain is tightly closed when he specifically remembers leaving it open last night, and that there’s a lollipop sticking out from under his pillow.

 

-

 

A few shots in, and Brendon’s already feeling the pleasant burn in his stomach. William approaches him, latching onto his arm like a limpet, and Brendon doesn’t have the heart to push him away.

Instead, he asks if Gabe’s around.

“Last I saw, he was —“ William pauses for a dramatic gasp, “— scandalously kissing Vicky!” He barks out a laugh like Gabe and Vicky snogging is all a huge joke. Brendon smiles; Clearly, William’s had a couple more shots than him. He thanks the taller man and leaves Will to chortle at himself.

“Gabe! Just who I was looking for!” Brendon smirks as Gabe raises an eyebrow at him. He takes the opportunity to drag Gabe to an unoccupied corner of the room. “You haven’t taken up writing as a hobby, have you?” 

“Nah, little dude. Why you asking?" 

“Hm… just checking. He pulls out the most recent note he had received — the one he showed to Jon — and hands it to Gabe to inspect.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the writer of this note, would you?”

Gabe reads it, eyes glazed in confusion, before handing it back to Brendon. “Sorry man, I don’t know. Little fucker stole the letter G from me though!” He shakes his head in exaggerated disapproval. “I’ll always remain supreme G!” Gabe hollers as he returns to Vicky’s side, excitedly going to town on a new can of beer.

So Gabe — his lead — was crossed off. That leaves no doubt in Brendon’s mind that it’s a definite prank, and he suddenly feels ridiculous for reading too much into it. 

The walls are closing in on him, and his oxygen is rapidly depleting. He stalks off towards the exit and briefly considers trashing both of these notes — who’d stop him? Evidently, it turns out to be himself because he stuffs the notes back into his pockets and comes face to face with the frigid night air of Chicago.

 

-

 

Suddenly, a few shots has morphed into an entire bottle of gin, and Brendon feels unwanted. He’s drinking on a Saturday evening with no one around, the spitting image of pathetic. He bitterly takes another sip and resumes staring at a wall. It’s pulsating quite vividly, and flecks of white are dancing in his brown eyes.

The thought that he might regret drinking so much in the morning never occurs to him. Why would it? Maybe future him deserves it. He can hold his damn liquor anyway, no matter what anyone else might say.

As the last few drops of the bottle he’s nursing drip down his throat, something akin to sadness wells up in him again. The guys are asleep in their bunks, Jon and Spencer having stumbled in earlier clearly stoned out of their minds, and Ryan, well. He did whatever Ryan did.

Come to think of it, Brendon has hardly seen Ryan talking to anyone at all these days. He’s always perched on a chair in the back area, staring at everything and nothing, scribbling whatever it is lyricists write about down.

Brendon can relate, maybe too hard. He makes a mental note to talk to Ryan tomorrow, provided he isn’t kicked out of the area as Ryan so often loves to do.

_Unwanted._

 

-

 

Ryan stirs awake, hunger coursing through his body. Realizing with sleepy irritation that he unintentionally skipped dinner again (damn that beautiful boy with those stupidly enchanting brown eyes, always wreaking havoc through his mind), he hops out of his bunk as gracefully as he could with his gangly legs, and moves to check on Brendon.

Call it love, call it paranoia. It’s probably a mixture of both.

Brendon’s bunk is empty. 

Panic instantly kicks in and suddenly, he’s wide awake. He creeps into the lounge area, praying to whatever higher force there may be that the younger boy is there. It’s difficult to see — moonlight being his only aid — but relief instantly floods his being as he spots that familiar mop of brown hair sprawled out on the main couch. His fingers curl with the need to touch, and it takes sheer willpower to pad over to the fridge instead of to Brendon’s side like he wishes.

After grabbing an apple and heating up a bowl of spaghetti (who had even found time to make this?) as quietly as he could manage at 3 in the morning, he gives into his admittedly weak willpower and carefully sits himself down adjacent to the snoring Brendon. His fingers are twitching again, so he occupies them with his extremely late dinner.

He has absolutely no clue how he’d explain himself if Brendon just so happened to wake up right now, so once again, he found himself praying to whoever’s listening. Every snuffle or movement of Brendon’s limbs resulted in Ryan jumping, nerves completely frayed.

God, the things he does for this boy. He continues to eat in silence, willing himself to calm down already, this is ridiculous. Eventually, he sets his empty dish and apple core on top of one of Jon’s magazines and tells himself to get up, to go back to bed and pretend he wasn’t just sitting there like a desperate fool.

He’s just about to do it when Brendon shifts in his sleep and grips Ryan’s shirt.

He very nearly has a coronary. 

Brendon’s murmuring something, Ryan can’t quite make it out, but it leads to Brendon’s head in Ryan’s lap and hot breaths fluttering over Ryan’s crotch. He’s afraid that if his heart beats any faster, he’ll end up in the hospital, having had a heart attack for real.

As much as he doesn’t want to ruin this moment, he definitely does not want to pop a boner directly in Brendon’s face (not without the younger’s consent, anyway), so he shoves Brendon’s shoulder lightly while whispering his name. Ryan’s hoping that in Brendon’s sleep-induced state, he won’t be asking questions 

Eventually, Brendon finally awakens, long eyelashes casting individual shadows on his cheekbones. Ryan waits patiently for Brendon’s mind to catch up with where he is. He emits a small, confused “Ryan?”

Ryan’s instantly reminded of just how head-over-heels in love he is with this boy. He bites his lip and doesn’t say anything back, despite the millions of answers he has flitting around his mind. He doubts any of those would be good enough for Brendon.

Brendon sniffles and sits up, hand shooting up to his forehead. “I drank a lot.”

Ryan wants to be angry. He really does. He hates that he can’t accept alcohol, can’t accept the wreckage and hate-filled slaps that came along with that hell of a poison. It’s Brendon though. 

Brendon could tell Ryan he ripped up every last one of his notebooks and that he despises him to the moon and back, and Ryan would never find it within himself to be legitimately angry with him. In fact, he’d smile and agree; He hates himself too.

“Hey, Ryan?”

“Hm?”

“Can I— Can you just…” Brendon trails off, uncertainty shining in his eyes. _Brendon, baby, my baby, you never have to be uncertain with me._

“Can I…?” Ryan repeats, waiting for Brendon to finish his question. He doesn’t get an answer, at least not a verbal one. He does, however, get an armful of Brendon Urie and the strong, intoxicating scent of coconut shampoo in his nose. 

“I’m sorry.” Brendon sounds choked up, and that simple sound is enough to shatter Ryan’s heart. He gathers up the distraught boy in his arms and immediately starts making shushing sounds in an attempt to soothe him. He’s hit with the overwhelming urge to kiss his tears away — the ones pitifully staining his shirt — but he knows better than that. “Sorry, sorry, so—“

“Bren, what are you apologizing for?” Despite his effort to keep any tremors out of his voice, it’s shaky anyway. Brendon’s trembling against him, hot tears still dripping onto Ryan’s back, and his heart hurts, hurts so fucking badly for Brendon and he can’t even do anything about it.

Ryan never does receive an answer. He lets Brendon cry it out on his shoulders, lets his heart exhaust itself into a state of catatonic but worried pumping, but he doesn’t dare kiss Brendon’s forehead, not like how he wants to. He’s too afraid of breaking the fragile boy to do anything other than hold him gently.

Once Brendon’s heartbreaking sobs reduce to an occasional whimper, Ryan cautiously tries to stand up, arms still wrapped around him. “Come on, let’s— let’s get you to bed.” Brendon is pliant against him, warm and strung up along Ryan’s side as he maneuvers the both of them into the bunk area.

He slides Brendon’s curtain open for him. Wordlessly, the smaller boy clambers inside and rubs his eyes, likely having cried himself to the point of exhaustion. The mere sight of it tugs at his heart strings. As soon as Ryan’s positive that Brendon’s safe and tucked into bed, he turns around to enter his own.

“Wait,” Brendon calls, making Ryan jump in startled confusion. “Would you mind… um…” He stops to gesture to his own bed and presses himself against the wall. “For tonight?” He whispers meekly, like he’s afraid of Ryan rejecting him or something along that absurd notion.

On one hand, it probably won’t be healthy for his poor heart to crawl in there and let Brendon cuddle him for a few hours. On the other, he may never get this chance again. He reasons that if he wants to live, he should live, and resolutely sighs. He’s always been weak at saying no to people, especially when their name happens to be Brendon Urie. 

Brendon gives Ryan a small smile as he delicately joins Brendon in his bunk. Ryan shuts the curtain and lines himself up against it, just in case Brendon wants his space (he never does, that clingy, adorable kid). Moments later, Brendon’s intertwining his icy cold legs with Ryan’s and prodding him until Ryan gets the message.

It’s not every day that the universe gives him a chance to spoon Brendon Urie. He gladly takes up the offer, heartbeat thrumming in his ears — he can only hope that the other boy can’t feel it. Once Ryan’s sure Brendon can’t possibly press himself harder into Ryan’s front, he throws a comforting arm over the smaller boy. 

God, he’s gonna regret this in the morning.

 

-

 

They never discussed what events occurred when they woke up.

 

-

 

It’s a foggy afternoon with little rays of sunshine peeking out, and Brendon’s leaning against the bus steps, taking long drags of a cigarette. Spencer’s with him— it’s a comfortable silence. He thinks about the two notes he received (they stopped coming, perhaps Patrick had knocked some sense into Pete) and takes another drag. He kinda wishes someone could love him enough to seriously write him love letters, but he guesses he’ll take anything. 

Has Spencer seen the letters? Brendon’s suddenly curious, and he finds himself rummaging through his pockets in search of the long dated notes.

“Spence?”

“Yea?” 

“Did I ever show you the joke letters I got from Pete?”

 Spencer looks visibly puzzled, so Brendon hands him his proof. He can see Spencer’s eyebrow arch into his hairline as he reads through the two quickly. Realization dawns in Spencer’s eyes as he fully comprehends the contents.

“Brendon.” There’s a sense of foreboding calmness in Spencer’s voice that leaves Brendon a lot more concerned now. 

“What?”

“Pete didn’t write these.”

Now it’s Brendon’s turn to be confused. Hadn’t this been a prank, a joke gone awry? “What do you mean?” 

“Look, R— whoever wrote these didn’t want me to tell you anything, okay? But, considering it’s been weeks since he wrote these and he hasn’t done anything about you yet, I’m just gonna say it,” Regret was painted on Spencer’s face like a flashy warning sign, but Brendon made no move to stop him. “It— It isn’t a joke. Not to him.”

When it seems like Spencer isn’t going to elaborate further, Brendon picks up the conversation. “Huh?” 

“Why don’t you ask Ryan to show you his lyrics later?” Damn Spencer and his carefully crafted technique of answering questions with more questions. Brendon doesn’t quite get it, but it looks like that’s all Spencer’s willing to shell out.

He stands up and stamps the used cigarette embers into oblivion, then goes back inside the bus. He trusts Spencer to pick up after him later anyway.

 

-

 

First showers in hotels are always a major plus in Brendon’s book, and he honestly can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be than standing under the blessedly hot stream of water, singing at the top of his lungs. Tonight was Ryan’s night to room with Brendon, and Ryan had always been a complete pushover whenever Brendon whipped out his puppy-dog eyes. He was no match, really. 

Thirty minutes and three increasingly loud bangs on the bathroom door later, Brendon was toweled and sauntering out the door. He unzips his suitcase in search of acceptable pajamas to wear, completely unaware of a certain Ryan Ross eye-fucking him from behind himself. When he does turn around, Ryan’s nowhere to be seen.

He nimbly tugs on his flannel pajamas and flops down onto the bed, more than prepared for a good night’s rest. That bunk had seriously been hurting his poor back. Maybe he could con Jon into giving him a back massage tomorrow. He’s about to turn on the television, remote in hand, when he spots a notebook out of the corner of his eye.

Spencer’s words from last week, _“Why don’t you ask Ryan to show you his lyrics later?”_ echo in his mind as he cautiously approaches the carelessly left out notebook. There’s no way Ryan will find out that Brendon took a peek — just a tiny peek — at his writing if he’s quick about it.

He smirks to himself as he skims through the pages, his handwriting eerily familiar for some reason. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he feels like he’s seen these looping g’s before, the slanted j’s. It’s all nonsense, Brendon can hardly make out what these songs and entries are supposed to mean underneath all the obscure metaphors and odd language choices Ryan used.

It’s when he sees a Counting Crows lyric written in the margins of one of his pages — We all want something beautiful. I wish I was beautiful. — that he freezes. He’s read those exact lines before, handwriting and all. He gasps and drops the notebook like he’s been scorched, then dizzily walks back to his bed. It’s like everything is falling into place now when he doesn’t want it to. 

Ryan wrote those notes. 

For him. For real. Ryan—

Ryan.

Brendon’s mind is positively reeling. He can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe. His senses are shutting down, everything technicolored now black and white, nothing makes sense everything is vivid technicolor again everything is…

He doesn’t register Ryan’s hands on his shoulders until he is being violently shaken. He tilts his head up to stare right into Ryan’s frenzied hazel eyes, face a sickly pallor, white noise blaring in Brendon’s ears. He’s gorgeous.

God. Ryan’s in love with him.

Ryan. Ryan Ryan Ryan Ry, the Ryan who’s so emotionally closed off, the Ryan who—

Loves him.

Brendon never thinks his actions through. That’s a known fact among anyone who’s ever been around him, and that’s why Brendon jerks Ryan down to his level and kisses him harshly. It’s all teeth clacking and noses bumping initially with the addition of Ryan trying to break away, but Brendon’s not permitting him to. He needs to know what Ryan tastes like, what he did to make Ryan fall for him, so he kisses him harder in his pursuit of answers.

Nothing gets answered.

Ryan finally separates himself from Brendon in a daze, both of them heaving. It’s Ryan who, with a cherry colored blush, tries to speak up first with a raspy “Br-Brendon…” Brendon pulls him in again, fusing their mouths together softer this time. He feels Ryan’s hand on his cheek, stroking it softly. Nothing makes sense. Perhaps it doesn’t have to.

He slips his tongue into Ryan’s mouth, acquiring a tiny moan from the other male. He doesn’t want to think about the swelling sensation in his chest nor his curled toes, just the wet heat of Ryan’s mouth. It scares him how easily he could accept this as a standard greeting for them, as a parting goodbye, as something to wake up to.

So he pulls away, leaving Ryan with red, red, red swollen lips and an awestruck expression that’ll be burned into his retinas for days. Neither say a word, not until Brendon breaks the silence.

“You wrote them.”

“I… what?”

“The letters— The letters you left for me all those weeks ago. You’re G.”

Ryan blushes hard and persistently stares at the floor. He looks like he wants to ask millions of questions, but Brendon’s never had any answers.

“Do you… f-feel the— the same?” asks Ryan in the smallest voice Brendon’s ever heard. He looks so vulnerable, like his heart’s the bird and Brendon’s the scheming feline about to pounce and rip it to shreds.

“I don’t know,” answers Brendon as honestly as he can because he seriously doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what love means, doesn’t know what to make of his want to wake up to Ryan’s kisses, and what would it mean for the band?

Ryan’s face crumples, making Brendon instantly feel like the biggest asshole to walk the earth. The taller man stands up abruptly, and Brendon can see the small beads of tears gathering in his eyes, no matter how well he tries to hide them.

“Wait— no, no, that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try.” Brendon babbles. He can’t have Ryan walk out on him now, not when he thinks he can learn to love Ryan back someday. “I can try, for you Ryan ok, I’m willing, I’m willing…”

“I don’t want to force you into something you might not want,” Ryan mumbles timidly. He takes a seat back down on the bed, right next to Brendon. At least Brendon doesn’t have to worry about him fleeing the scene.

“But I do want it. I want— Ryan, I want to wake up in your arms okay, do you remember that time we slept in the same bunk and you spooned me?”

Ryan nods, too embarrassed to say anything else.

“I liked it a lot more than you’d think. I didn’t think about it— didn’t want to think about it but… God, I wish you would’ve just told me. Those notes confused the shit out of me. I thought Pete wrote me those as like, a joke!”

The solemn expression on Ryan’s face fades as he drinks in Brendon’s words.

“I was too scared.”

“You don’t have to be scared of me.”

Ryan smiles; Brendon returns it. He innocently drags Ryan under the covers with him, fits himself amongst Ryan’s lanky body and somehow, it feels right.

He doesn’t think all questions eventually need answers. Not this one. Maybe they’ll talk about whatever it is that’s happening right now in the near future, but for now, Brendon’s fine with walking the line between defined and blurred. He’s got Ryan to steady him, Ryan who loves him, and it’s just. Ryan.

Not a question, not an answer. Just a statement.

Brendon snuggles into his friend, boyfriend, whomever and manually hooks Ryan’s arm over his body.

A statement.

Brendon could get used to that.

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally supposed to be a vent fic but it turned into whatever this clusterfuck is lmao
> 
> hope u enjoyed anyways :^]]


End file.
